


Ten Thousand Bright Joys

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam brings the light of Yule to the Undying Lands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Thousand Bright Joys

They might be walking in any Shire meadow, beneath the blazing stars, their clasped hands hidden by the cloaking dark. If the grass was softer and the air sweeter for the time of year, it was not recognised by those two lovers who walked and spoke intimately, their heads bent together and feet so light they barely left a mark. The sea sighed restlessly, withdrawing and then rolling back in - collapsing over the sand, as if turning over in bed - the sound so familiar to their ears, they paid it no regard, but paced on up to the top of the hill, where the tiny lantern swung brightly over the door. 

When Sam had first heard the sound, it kept him awake at night and he would follow its pattern in his mind as he lay, cradling Frodo in his arms and breathing kisses into his hair until, eventually, falling into an exhausted sleep, the waves washed consciousness away until he could no longer resist its spell. 

But Frodo had been carried away long ago. He said the sound was calming and he couldn’t sleep without it now. Here, in the dead heart of the year, calculated by Sam with his small calendar, marked and ordered with all the months and festivals of the Shire, the darkness was deeper and the quiet that fell at star-kindling was so complete it seemed to sink into the soul. 

“I don’t ever remember seeing such thick dark before I came here.” Sam turned at the top of the hill and looked down over the pasture where they had walked, tumbling down in long rolling folds of black and blue to the unseen sea, only the dappled silver of broken starlight on water revealing its vastness.

Frodo blew out a frosty cloud and smiled, blinking against the dark. “There was always some old Gaffer still awake or a shepherd’s hut with a lamp burning, there was always a light awake somewhere, if you looked hard enough.” 

“The Dragon never put out its lights that I recall,” Sam smiled. “Don’t the elves need light to see by night?”

“They kindle their own light, they don’t have much use for flame except to warm their halls and light their tales.” Frodo slipped his arm into Sam’s and sought the sound of the sea, muffled tonight, as though it too lay in a hush.

“Makes me want to build a bonfire,” Sam went on, gazing up at the sky. “I look at all that great dark and I want to fill it up somehow.”

“And break the quiet with a thousand raucous songs?” Frodo grinned. 

“Well, is it any wonder I should want to sing?” Sam leant to press a warm kiss against Frodo’s mouth. Taken by surprise, Frodo stumbled a little on his feet, but Sam caught him swiftly and pulled him close, his hands tucked snug under the woollen coat, pressed against the small of Frodo’s back. 

“I need no other light,” Frodo smiled, his eyes shining, and Sam wondered if all the light in his own life rested there. “Shall I have to ask for that kiss?” 

“You need never ask,” Sam murmured, drawing Frodo closer with soft brushes of his lips and fingers, bringing warmth back to chilled skin, his mouth slowly marking its path to the soft, questing mouth that sank open under his first press. Their kiss was deep and slow and it fell into the peace of that moment to be absorbed into the darkness like a sinking star.

~ ~ ~ 

The little smial was cool as they entered and Sam quickly made up the fire in the hearth, flooding the dark room with warm, golden light.

Frodo stood by the door, watching as he unbuttoned his coat. Sensing Frodo’s eyes on him, Sam turned his head from the dazzling flames and held out his hand. Hanging up his coat, Frodo walked over to the fireplace and crouched down to look into the leaping flames. 

“Do you know the date?” Sam said, never drawing his eyes away, even as their fingers entwined. 

Frodo shook his head. “I’ve learned to let time pass, I don’t mark it these days.”

“It’s easy to let it go, easy as the sand through your fingers,” Sam murmured, pulling Frodo onto his knee. 

Frodo tipped back his head and looked at Sam through half-closed eyes. “But you don’t want to forget?”

“Sometimes I wish I could…” Sam replied, trailing a light finger down Frodo’s golden profile. “But there are things from the old life I like to keep.”

A flicker of something passed across Frodo’s face and Sam wasn’t certain if it was remembrance or regret. 

“I would let them go though, Frodo, if you wanted me to, I’d forget…”

“No, Sam,” Frodo interrupted. “I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Softly frowning, he buried his fingers in tangled curls and drew Sam down. “You hold to your memories.”

Sam sighed, feeling a sharp twinge of guilt, and yet as he found the love and patient acceptance in Frodo’s face, all sadness was soon swept away by a rush of desire. Tenderly holding Frodo’s face in the cup of his hands, he skilfully opened his lover’s mouth with slow strokes of his tongue, plunging deep love and flame, until Frodo lay across his lap, cheeks flushed, and his fingers tangled in the nape of Sam’s neck.

“So what is the date, Sam, according to your reckoning?” he whispered, hands unclenching. 

“First of Yule,” Sam smiled. “I don’t know what made me think of it, for there must have been many Yules I spent in this place and never knew the season was with us.”

Frodo turned back to the fire, his eyes distant. “Bilbo made merry the year we arrived. Gandalf helped him find the things he needed – although some of the spices were not the same and the sharp-leafed holly couldn’t be found – he did his best. We eat goose and figgy pudding and there was spiced wine in the evening. Bilbo was in a forced good-humour, telling stories and jokes, even though his heart wasn’t in them. Gandalf joined us for a time, although he looked a little bemused and his back must have troubled him, bending to sit crossed legged near the fire, his hair caught up with the kissing bunch. It made us both homesick, I think, and I wanted to enjoy it, to please Bilbo, but my heart was still sore and I retired early to bed that night. Bilbo agreed that perhaps it would be better not to keep the old ways here and we never celebrated again.”

Sam sighed, his voice subdued as he stroked up and down Frodo’s spine. “I always enjoyed Yule back home, my only regret was never having shared it with you.”

“I wouldn’t want you to feel the sadness again, Sam.” Frodo began forcefully. “It broke my heart to see it in your eyes and I don’t want you suffering again, not now the ache has eased a little.”

“It has gone, Frodo,” Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo and held him tightly. “Gone as if it had never been. All that’s left now are warm memories.” 

Frodo stiffened and then looked up at Sam, his eyes anxious yet resigned. “If it is what you truly want, but please Sam promise me, no parlour games and none of that dreadful bread sauce.”

“Never fear!” Sam laughed aloud and kissed the top of Frodo’s dark head. “Thank you, me dear.”

~ ~ ~

Sam walked through the wide curling streets, under the shadow of high towers that glittered in the frosty light. In the heart of the city, all paths narrowed and converged on a small cluster of workshops where the wonders of the city were forged from metal and crystal and glass. The air was warm, metallic with the heat of the forges, and rang with the chime of hammer on anvil, fire hissing against stone.

He was looking for inspiration, as so often he had wandered through the markets at Bywater, searching the stalls for a gift that was fine and rare enough for his master. He wondered if he might commission a piece of art. It would have to be an object of exquisite beauty to be deserving, and Sam couldn’t yet form a picture of it in his mind.

Wandering deeper, Sam found himself in a shimmering space of heat and sparks. He watched the heavy molten fire dripping from the iron tongues, lifted and curled and teased into intricate spirals. As the fire cooled, the substance changed from a molten red to a cool and blazing blue. Fascinated, he stood with the heat burning fierce against his skin, and admired the skilled and practised ease with which the elf was transforming fire into glass. Looking up, he could see shelves upon shelves of beautiful, shining objects, their curving, richly coloured forms reflecting patterns of flame and drifting white stars of heat. 

He thought of the crudely made glass objects of home – the black-speckled looking-glass, the crude box lantern with the candle in the centre, patched together from wood and nails, the smooth, thick bell of the garden cloches that covered the tender plants from the frost. Practical objects; not made for beauty. 

Plunging the sizzling tongues into a bucket of cold water, the elf drew off his thick leather gloves and turned to Sam with a welcoming smile. 

“You wish me to make something?” he asked.

Sam hesitated a moment and then nodded. “Yes, please – these are beautiful,” he nodded to the colourful objects on the shelf. 

“But you want something more than an object on a shelf,” the elf added, blithely summing up Sam’s desires in a moment. 

“The colours are so bright – they seem to be glowing,” Sam murmured, “I was wondering how they would look if a candle was put inside.”

“Like a lantern – something from home, perhaps?” 

Sam hesitated, unsure if this would be something that Frodo would want. “Can you make any shape?”

“Any form, any colour, whatever you wish.” 

“Then I think I know what I would like, although I’m not certain if it can be done…”

~ ~ ~

Having sensed Sam’s restlessness and awkward glances, Frodo had made his excuses and left the little smial on the hill to walk a mile along the coast to Bilbo’s home, close to the sound of the waves, it’s low facade decorated with the shells Bilbo had gathered on the sands.

After a prolonged lunch, they sat beside the fire and Bilbo shared his newest treasure - a petal-thin volume of poetry, gifted to him by Elrond and full of lyrical and lilting rhymes that ebbed and flowed like the distant surge of the sea.

Frodo rested his head and let the sound of his Uncle’s voice, creaking and cracking a little now, like weary timbers, relax his uneasy mind. In no time at all, he had drifted into a deep reverie, and it was only when the snapping of the fire caught his attention that he realised that Bilbo had closed the book.

“You’re lost in thought my lad,” Bilbo frowned. “All’s well I trust?”

Frodo’s eyes blinked open and he sighed, “Yes, better than ever in fact.”

“Good…good…” 

“Bilbo?” 

“Hmmm?”

“Do you remember the first year, when we celebrated Yule?” Frodo asked in a rush. 

“Oh yes,” Bilbo smiled, taking out his pipe and tin.

“I know we never spoke of it afterwards…”

“A bit of a fiasco really, wasn’t it?” he muttered around the stem of his pipe.

“I’m sorry I never thanked you.” Frodo looked solemnly at his Uncle, the firelight making his eyes glow brilliantly. 

“My fault entirely,” Bilbo croaked, shaking his head. “It was a bad idea. I wanted to make you feel at home and instead I made you homesick.”

“You went to a lot of trouble, it was a fine spread.” 

Bilbo laughed. “That goose took some procuring, I can tell you!” 

“Never again?” 

“Well, I never say never!” Bilbo puffed. 

Frodo sighed and folded his legs up beneath him as he troubled over his thoughts. 

“Come on Frodo-lad, spit it out,” Bilbo urged, offering the tin. 

Frodo shook his head, playing with a thread on his frayed breeches. “It’s Sam,” he sighed, at last. 

Bilbo exhaled most impressive smoke ring. “I thought as much.” 

Frodo watched as the interconnecting rings gradually drifted apart and hung in the air, hazy and golden before crumbling into dust. 

“He wants to celebrate. He’s arranging something as we speak.”

“And?” Bilbo smirked, tapping his pipe against the fire. 

“And I’m not sure that he will enjoy it as much as he thinks…or…”

“Or that you will appreciate his efforts?” Bilbo finished decisively. “Oh, Frodo, let him do what he wants – you know arguing with Sam is as impossible as cajoling a headstrong goat.” 

Frodo laughed and shook his head. “That’s true.”

“He knows full well what he’s doing, I’ll warrant. There’s no use fighting it, my boy. You run off home with good will in your heart and an open mind – it can’t be any worse than one of Esme’s dreadful parlour parties, now can it?”

Frodo grimaced. “Spare me.”

“Hurry along now,” Bilbo groaned, waving his pipe, “go and make merry, I’ll raise a glass to you both.”

~ ~ ~ 

By the time Frodo finally left for home, the sky was growing dark and the stars were emerging one by one from behind the veil. A high adoring song was in the air – the elves performing their own ceremonial rite.

Walking by the darkly rolling sea, Frodo could taste in the air the surprising bitterness of snow, and he buttoned his coat up to the neck. Trying not to think too hard on what might be awaiting him on his return, and the pain that might accompany them, Frodo thought instead about the many and varied ways he could show his love to Sam once the greasy dishes were cleared away. 

Singing under his breath, his eyes focused on a bright red point of light not three miles distant. At first he thought it must be an old moon or star, but as he came nearer to it, he noticed other lights appearing – glowing spheres of colour – green and yellow and purple, and the closer he came to home, the more brilliantly they shone. 

By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he could see that the lights were hovering around the smial, as if the stars had fallen and were caught up in the trees. Hurrying, breathless, up the hill he stood at the edge of the garden, looking up to find himself sheltering beneath a net of shimmering silver light. High above, a single snowflake drifted loose from the sky, and settled on his cheek.

Further up the garden, long strings of glowing coloured glass were hung like lanterns,   
swinging gently in the breeze, and singing with high-pitched clarity as the wind passed over them. Frodo was entranced; the spheres were so very thin and fragile that the light seeped through them. Longing to touch one, he reached out, but they were strung too high and he could only gaze up in wonder and surprise, noting the exceptional richness of each new colour and the different notes that each glass sang.

The cherry tree that stood against the door to the smial was lit up by a thousand or more tiny golden spheres, so small he could have fitted twenty in the palm of his hand. Touching one lightly with his fingertip, he heard the ball hum softly to itself. Delighted, Frodo touched another, listening for the subtle change in tone and laughing to himself. 

“Each one sings a different note,” he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the glimmering tree. 

“Aye, they’re all made different.” 

“Sam!” Frodo held out his hand and Sam took it warmly, rubbing his thumb up and over the back of Frodo’s cold hand. “I never imagined…”

Sam beamed. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“But I thought…”

“Aye I know, goose, pudding, that horrible bread sauce…”

Frodo shook his head, ashamed. “Sorry, Sam. But this … this is beautiful, Sam. Just magical. Wherever did you find such things?”

“That would be telling,” Sam smiled, running his fingers through Frodo’s curls, catching up a few snowflakes along the way. “Do you know how your eyes shine?”

Frodo looked up; such an ethereal beauty in his face, that Sam was suddenly struck breathless by the force of it. “Kiss me,” Sam said, simply. “I love you.”

Lips parting instinctively, Frodo pressed cool lips against Sam’s hot mouth and kissed him hard and hungry, fisting his hands into the warm wool around Sam’s neck. Little by little, Sam drew away, smiling, caressing, and cupping the light in his hands. 

“Come inside, love,” he whispered, blinking against the snow. “It’s cold out here.”

~ ~ ~ 

Inside the little smial, more lights hung in loops above the fireplace and over the alcove where their bed was set in cosy intimacy, dressed with warm furs. The table beneath the window was laden with simple food that Frodo enjoyed. Fresh fish and bread and cheeses, cold meats and small rough-skinned apples from the winter store. A fire blazed in the hearth and the sweet fragrance of yew filled the air from the great heavy bough fixed over the archway that led into Frodo’s study and library.

“I can’t imagine a more inviting sight, Sam,” Frodo smiled, hugging him tightly, his damp nose brushing cold against Sam’s neck.

“First things first, Frodo. You get yourself warmed up by the fire and I’ll bring you a mug of hot cider.”

“Mmmm…” Frodo unbuttoned his coat and hung it from the peg. “I can’t believe it’s snowing. I’ve never seen snow here before, I thought the climate too mild for it.”

“It’s as if it came to us,” Sam said, standing by the black range and pouring a ladle full of spiced cider into a mug, “because I asked for it.”

Frodo sat down cross-legged on the soft rug in front of the fire and warmed his frozen hands. “If I had known, I would have worn a cloak.”

“Here, this’ll warm you up.” Sam passed Frodo the mug of cider, which Frodo accepted with a grateful smile.

Taking a sip, he looked up at Sam with a question in his glimmering eyes. 

“All in good time,” Sam replied. “Shall I make the toast?”

Frodo nodded. “Please do, Sam, I forget.”

Sam cleared his throat and recited. “Blessings on this home, the pots and pans, the knives and forks, the flat irons and the brushes, the needles and pins, the mouse in the wainscot and the cricket ‘neath the stone, the good master and all who round the table go. May the season bring you joy.”

Frodo raised his mug and chinked it against Sam’s. “Joy to you”, he responded, drinking deep. Swallowing, and watching Sam lay his mug aside, Frodo watched his face for a flicker of sadness. “I’m glad you have such good memories of Yule, Sam. It must have been a happy time in your home. All the little children that round the table go – that’s how it should be read, isn’t it?”

Sam’s face grew grave and he laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, his eyes full of emotion. “I was blessed in my family, Frodo, but I was never content. I admit that Yule was a happy time, but I missed you sore when we toasted the health of friends and kin and I longed … I longed for this…. Sometimes I felt right bad about it too, as if I weren’t appreciating what I had. I loved them all, Frodo, and Rose was dear to me as any, but I couldn’t change what was in my heart.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what made me say that,” Frodo muttered. 

“No,” Sam replied, tilting up Frodo’s downcast face. “I would rather you told me the truth. There’s no hurt, Frodo, only the feeling that I’ve been blessed twice over.”

Frodo smiled hesitantly and glanced at the table. “Shall we start anew?”

Sam beamed and rose to his feet. “I’ll make up a platter and bring it over.”

“It looks marvellous, Sam. I can’t remember ever really enjoying Yule at home.”

Sam heaped a large plate with food and carried it over. “This is different – this is ours.”

Sitting side by side, the two hobbits ate hungrily, sharing tastes of this and that from each other’s fingers, pausing every now and then to nibble and suck. When the plate was finally empty but for a couple of apple cores and a hunk of bread, they fell back with contented sighs and looked up to the shining, singing waves of glass. 

“You’ve done all this for me,” Frodo whispered. “And what have I done for you?” 

Sam turned his head and kissed Frodo softly, touching his bowing top lip with the light point of his tongue. “I saw you long ago, with the Yule fire shining in your eyes and I wanted to walk home with you…”

“I know…” Frodo whispered. “I know.”

“This is what I dreamed of, all those long years ago.”

Drawing Sam down, Frodo stopped his words with a kiss that quickly grew urgent. 

Raising himself onto his elbows, Sam unbuttoned his waistcoat with one hand, whilst the other stroked and caressed his lover through the damp linen of his fine tunic. Shrugging off his shirt, Sam paused to look down at his love, fragments of blue and red and gold fractured over his ivory skin like a pattern from a stained-glass window seen in the great high halls. “The lights…” he murmured, pressing a warm open kiss to his lover’s throat. “You look…”

“In your hair…” Frodo whispered, running his hands over Sam’s smooth skin, wondering at how quickly he had regained his youth and how beautiful he looked in his new skin, toned from working in the sun and sea-spray.

“Come on, love.” Sam stood, guiding Frodo over to where the lights were twinkling in a tumbling ribbon of gold and blue and silver.

Having laid his lover down on the deep pillows, Sam unbuckled his belt and kicked off his breeches and underlinens, until he crouched naked above Frodo, gazing at him as though he had never stripped him before and didn’t know where to start.

“Sam!” Frodo laughed. “Please, Sam, I’m hungry for you.”

“It’s part of your gift, Frodo,” Sam murmured. “I want you to enjoy it.”

Feeling a sharp stab of desire low in his belly, Sam quickly unfastened the clasp of Frodo’s loose tunic and tugged it over his head, revealing the ivory beauty of his skin, washed by the wavering blue light of the sea. Unable to resist, he dove down and suckled on the sweet skin, flicking the shell pink nipples with his tongue until they grew hard and rubbing circles down his trembling, arching stomach until he reached the waistband of his breeches. Crawling down the bed, he watched the colour changing, washing the shadowed crease with dark honeyed gold. Laving it with his tongue, Sam tugged lightly at the wiry hair that was hidden mere inches beneath the damp panel. Frodo moaned and lifted his legs in silent invitation. 

“Sshh, slowly, love…” Sam pressed his mouth against the heat that throbbed, trapped inside the cloth, moving up and down, feeling the flesh rising under the warmth of his breath and the gentle nip of his questing mouth. 

Growing impatient, Frodo reached down to unfasten them with trembling fingers. “Oy!” Sam admonished, tapping Frodo’s fingers away and completing the work himself, drawing Frodo out with tender care and holding the smooth, warm flesh against his lips, brushing it so lightly that Frodo moaned in impatience.

“I know…” Sam breathed, merely rubbing his closed lips back and forth over the damp velvet head. “Slow, now, nice and slow…”

Frodo ground his teeth in frustration and slammed his head back against the pillow with a cry, his hips rocking upwards in desperate attempt to increase the friction. 

Moving back to look down at the golden drenched skin before him, Sam leaned forwards on his hands and knees to lick drowsily up and down, up and down, as though he could taste the honey there. Above their heads, the lanterns sang in the draught from the dying fire, a thick drowsy note of love. 

Frodo was mewling softly now, as Sam tasted the salt thick and heavy on his tongue and his fingers moved to the bedside to rake up some of the slippery sweet scented balm that lay in the little green pot. Slowly feeling and exploring, Sam took his time, paying his lover’s urgent cries little heed as he rubbed and rocked and sweetly bent his head to suckle and calm his bucking hips with deep caresses of his lips and slow twists of his fingers, the colours wavering; cool silver, hot gold and searing blue. 

Frodo’s breaths were growing desperate now and Sam couldn’t deny him any longer. Rising to his knees, he withdrew his fingers and positioned himself against the warm place, stilling himself for a moment so that he might not plunge too sudden and too deep, causing his lover pain. 

“I love you,” Frodo choked. “Please….”

Drawing a shaking breath, Sam pushed forwards with his hips, whilst guiding Frodo upwards, so that his thighs wrapped around Sam’s waist, tightening and relaxing convulsively as he fought for breath, his arms winding tightly around Sam’s neck, clutching and tangling in damp tendrils of hair. 

“Relax, sweet one…” Sam murmured, rocking gently back and forth, and guiding Frodo to sit back against him so that he might look into his face, they moved as one, the blue sphere flaring in Frodo’s eyes, as Sam felt himself sinking deeper and deeper and drifting further and further into bliss. 

“Sam!” Frodo cried as Sam’s upward thrusts grew more frantic, and Sam knew that he was close. Pressed up against Sam’s belly, he could feel every throb and pulse as Frodo jolted against him. Throwing back his head in ecstasy, Sam caught a pool of silver in the arch of Frodo’s throat and he traced it wildly with his tongue, urging him on. 

“See? Even the lights want to caress you?” Sam raised Frodo up and then pulled him back, once, twice, stars shattering before their eyes as their orgasm broke over them in a shattering of glass and light and whining, soaring song.

~ ~ ~ 

Frodo awoke an hour later in bed, cradled beneath Sam’s arm, feeling the light rise and fall of his sleeping breaths. He lay very still and listened to the music in the silence, the crackle of the crumbling log in the hearth, the muted rush of the waves and closer still, the snowflakes light patter against the window glass. The candles in the lanterns had blown out now and the coloured glass looked muted now, as though the magic that was in them had also been extinguished. Carefully sitting up, so as not to wake Sam, Frodo gently tapped one and as he did so, the sphere swung to the right and tapped the next, each one setting off its neighbour and chiming, like bells announcing joyful news.

Frodo smiled - perhaps the old ways could flourish here after all. Feeling content and well loved, he snuggled back beneath the fur covers, burrowing closer to his lover and closing his eyes.


End file.
